


The Grades

by Beatrice_Sank



Series: Take(s) Two [2]
Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: And The Company Is Sassy, Being Blue Rose Brats, But The Coffee is Good, Echoes of Other Lives (/yet to be/) Lived, Everyone Is Mean to Albert, Experiments with fashion and style, Fashion contest, Gen, Gordon is secretive Windom is losing it and Cooper is oblivious, Inspections and evaluations, Maybe One of Them Has Severe Anxiety and The Other Tends To Dissociate I Don't Know Man, Maybe They're Just Tired, Not Very Good Communication But Trying, Probably symbolical on some levels, So We May As Well Hang Out For A While Before Being Claimed By The Void, The Sweet Anguishes of the Buddy System, Washington being terrified of Blue Rose, With Fragile Hearts, office jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/Beatrice_Sank
Summary: It's September, which means it's inspection month for the Blue Rose team. But Diane and Jeffries never could quite behave, and then they never really could say everything that's on their mind either. But they try, and isn't it enough?An office scene set in the early 80s, that goes from fashion and fun to more disturbing themes and back, or maybe not. Because some words have echo. Let's do this one more time.Written for the wonderfulxstrange challenge!





	The Grades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DetroitBabe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetroitBabe/gifts).



> This was written for DetroitBabe, who requested an office scene between Diane and Jeffries, possibly involving fashion and gossips (because of course).  
> I'm afraid I probably tried to put too many different things in here, as I tend to do. Italics marks echoes with dialogues from the first part of that series, "Echo, laying naked by the well in the woods", but those are very independent texts. It's up to you to determine what those mean.

Apparently there's a Washington saying that can be condensed into something like “no month like September to remind you you're not worth a dime”, which Gordon probably tried to explain at some point, but here's the thing: disciplinary speaking, they are Blue Rose's bad pupils. They always get bored before the end. Which is why the seasonal inspections they get from the Bureau always retained an aura of mystery to them, even if the least bright agents instinctively understand it is a power move meant to warn them that they are not so special a team. Diane has presently three, no, four urgent reports to deal with that say otherwise, but whatever, if Washington wants to make a show of sending them an inspector, fine, let's do an inspection. The aftermath is still relatively similar to the previous one anyway, so much that it has become a sort of tradition: the designated inspector leaves Philly almost delirious, the observations cataclysmic, they read them for a laugh and then Gordon manages to get them miraculously edited so that they all look innocuous enough and can be left to their devastatingly vague occupations.

  
And so, September should feel like a serious start of the school year, but really it's the dunces' funfair if they say so themselves. Which they do, because fundamentally that's the role they play here, sacrificing in a way to social equilibrium, since around the office they'll always be the cool cats, and hence a bit of the troublemakers. Although there is an important distinction to be made: they are the real bad apples here at the exclusion of some more obvious candidates, because they could, theoretically, behave. As Diane once remarked, it's not really Albert's fault at all – he belongs to so many minorities that he can barely move an eyebrow without the whole public disapprobation to fall down on his back like a ton of bricks. That must account for certain epidermic reactions, surely. Not that they situate themselves outside of such categories, but they do have more latitude in their bearings hence, pardon the pun, the attitude. They really shouldn't have made this into a competition. Though he pretends, unconvincingly, not to be aware of it, it is pretty obvious that this amuses Gordon greatly, which, from someone who always had trouble refraining from admiring Jeffries' various excesses, is not altogether surprising.

“Well that's his extra paperwork, accumulating on his desk, so let the unreasonable man have his fun. I don't see why you should worry,” Diane always tries to reassure him and keep him on her side of the playground, even if she'll never admit she'd be sad to play alone. After all this has become an institution of sorts; they even developed a betting system, not too suspenseful since the person on the team who gets the worst evaluation contractually has to buy them all drinks, and Albert happens to be part of the team. He's been complaining about this rule since forever, loudly so. Even they had to admit the system was somewhat lacking, leading to some refinements. In the end, the inspection feels more like a pretext to mask what this is really all about: a very specific and very cutting-edge fashion contest.

 

“ _Oh_ _, look at you. Now this is quite inspiring._ ”

You never hear Phillip Jeffries entering a room, but after many embarrassing jumps, she also learned that he always, nevertheless, makes an entrance.

She cannot appear to be too impressed by his choice of attire; that would be uncomfortable for them both. But they can at least eye each other appreciatively. That year he truly outdid himself: he's a vision in a purple pinstripe suit, with a shirt so slinky it seems to be wet, or not to exist at all if you consider how much of his throat and pale chest is actually exposed under the jacket's enormous white lapels. It's not really fair game, she always thought, when you look like this under your clothes.

“It's nice to see you never chicken out of these things. This,” she says, pointing at the suit with her pen from behind her desk, as if she was about to pinpoint what it is exactly that she likes about it, “is spectacular.”

Probably trying to appear modest, he begins to walk around her in circles, with the smug air of someone who is going to ignore the elephant in the room for a while. Taking a clump of the huge silver fur coat she's currently wearing between his index and his thumb, he comments:

“That's nice enough a coat if you like the feeling of having killed what you wear with your bare hands, I suppose.”

“ _It will come to you with practice, you'll see_ _,_ ” she smirks, caressing the monstrosity with a maternal hand.“Although, please, it's about as fake as the boss's quiff. Real fur is for trappers and Republicans.”

“Interesting comparison, and one I happen to have an educated opinion about.”

She winces at him, arms clutching her sides as if to protect herself from the untimely images.

“Don't want to know.”

“Speaking of which,” Phillip says, smiling to underlines he knows he's going to be annoying, “where's your partner?”

Diane suddenly looks like she furiously needs a cigarette.

“He's not my partner and you know it. Hell, I didn't invented the buddy system. He's got his own...whatever, and you know what, I think Gordon would never see me as his real buddy because that's just not the way he looks at what I do here. Which is...”

“A real shame, probably.” He always has to be the one who's critical of Gordon, whenever the occasion presents itself. It's an odd privilege, one that seems necessary to the balance of the various office relationships that make Blue Rose work – even though they barely have any tangible results to show for themselves, as they regularly try to explain to those inspectors.

Diane, who had stood up in sudden indignation, falls back in her chair with a thump, retreating inside her coat.

“Anyway, I don't know why I get all worked up, I'm not even pleased with Cooper right now. He came in his most boring suit and had the nerves to try to lecture me on the respect we owe the institution. Coming from him, that's pretty rich. Do you know how many nonsensical tapes I had to edit for him to be able to walk through this door in a ready-to-wear cut, cotton 95% and wool 5%?”

He's standing behind her now, leaning over her chair like a conspirator, to ask mercilessly:

“You told him to fuck off, didn't you?”

His mischievous grin only grows wider when she rests her head on her hand with a pout, sighing:

“He loves being evaluated so much. Spring in his step and set jaw, all that. Awful. I couldn't say a thing.”

When he chuckles in her back, she rolls the chair around and declares:

“You know what Phillip, if we're going to do this I would appreciate you to stay where I can see you. Do you want to put a record on? Let's put a record on. I need a cigarette. What do you say? Want one? Anyway. Yes. You'd better take a seat. I'll get the coffee.”

The problem with being too good at some menial tasks like these is that she's always doubting if people actually come around to see her, or for the taste of the coffee. There are days when she wonders if it's such a rewarding job after all.

 

“So,” she states, putting the mug down a little to brusquely in front of him, “how did it go?”

“Terrible, I'm afraid. You?”

“Well the usual: I'm rude and lazy. Frankly I'm always shocked at these people' congenial lack of perception. Isn't that a flaw when you work for the FBI? That's what I asked him, but he wasn't small-talk inclined. I could have picked his pockets for God's sake. Note that I didn't. But I could've. Incredible, the whole lot of them. Baby lambs in a minefield.”

Sometimes he's taken aback, with no ulterior motive, at how beautiful she can be when she just embraces her utter superiority on most people in the office, and lets her frustration runs free. It's rather objective an observation, and neither of them is nice in the way Cooper (or, may he never hear of it, Albert) can be, so there is little point lying to themselves. They're awful aristocrats and they probably deserve some parts of these reports anyway. What he never could quite understand was what Gordon meant by keeping her in this position. Of course he had tried to find out what the plan was, but his partner was nothing if not secretive, and strangely he had a feeling the answer would hit a little too close to home if he ever get to one.

“I liked the last one better, what's his name. Knew how to appreciate me.”

“Is my memory deceiving me, or didn't you send him running through the corridor by the sheer force of the slap you gave him when he became too appreciative?”

She's not drinking her coffee nor smoking her cigarette, he notes, only chewing on her gum pensively as Brian Eno remains slightly dissonant in the background.

“Oh yes. He was the worst pig under the sun and a menace, hated this guy. But the reports were spot on: we were shocked at how little there was to correct. He got me, I tell you.”

“That's a nice touch,” he points out as she begins to blow an enthusiastic bubble to his face. “Where on earth did you find so orange a gum?”

“It's all the rage these days. Let a girl have it her way.”

The gum pops, but she manages to swallow it back without the usual embarrassing leftovers sticking to her face, like a pro.

 

“Oh Lord,” he says after sipping his coffee for a while, hand tracing a worried crease in his artfully gelled hair, “do you think they evaluated Lil as well?”

They both fall silent for a minute, dwelling on the strange last addition to the team. God knows where Gordon unearthed this one, she doesn't even talk properly, but he claims she's an invaluable asset on some missions. Phillip saw one or two of her dances and he strongly hopes she wasn't forbidden to talk for the sake of being the only employee to entirely communicate in code. There are limits to what can be tolerated in terms of Gordon's unhealthy obsession for privacy.

“Ha. Fuck. I hope not,” Diane finally says, deigning to touch her drink. She puts it down immediately.

“You know what, I need something stronger. Take me to one of your impossible bars, I beg you.”

“Now, now,” he temporizes, crossing his legs elegantly,“that is going too fast. We still have to decide on a winner.”

“Oh please. You've been pretending not to look at me since you came in but I now this must shock even you, Phil. A little. I mean this has impact, it's almost conceptual,” she says waving at her own face and body.

“Not to diminish your own gorgeous achievement, but you have to give me that.”

He smiles at her quickly, and doesn't answer. The least he can do is to make her wait. He stirs, slowly. Then he begins to tap his foot in rhythm with Brian Eno.

“Phillip.”

“Did I tell you the redhead from Accounting followed me up to my floor this morning? Don't know why,” he offers innocently.

“You know why. Is this shirt even real? It looks like you sewed baby moist towels together and called it a day.”

“Insults will get you nowhere here, I'm not Albert.”

“I wish you were,” she mumbles grumpily. “He can't dress for his life.”

When keeping her on her toes much longer begins to feel like cruelty, he ends up stating, palms open:

“Alright Evans, you win this one. What gave you the idea?”

Diane smiles like a war strategist who finally discovered a fellow connoisseur, but also because she likes it so much when he calls her Evans.

“It's the view you get from the door, the way my desk is oriented. I'm aware of it, since Cooper always teases from the threshold, comments on how my profile cut a hole in the office wall or I don't know what bullshit he's on these days, but you get the picture. So naturally, the guy comes in and doesn't bother approaching too much because you know, ugh, boring secretary work. But he stands by the door, from there it's bearable, the doll sure has no idea how to dress up like a respectable woman, that must be a pain, but she's not too hard on the eyes, if only she wasn't making such annoying noises with her nails, and why do they give them those typewriters that look like sub-machine guns, it's distressing. Make up's rather nice, well applied, lots of technique even if the colors are disgusting, hair is weird but it reminds him of that British cutie he saw in the last Playboy issue, so that will do, now pretend to take some notes and frown, for her to begin the interview worried. Play with your badge to remind her you're so much more important than she is, take a peek at her legs real quick, damn, well that explains the payroll, Jesus, clear your throat to let her know she's making you wait, and try to come closer to determine if there's any cleavage in sight.”

At that point in her reconstitution, she pauses and makes a face, slowly beginning to smirk at him from below.

“And so, the bloke takes a few steps inside, until I turn to him and say, with my sickeningly sweet voice: “Oh hello inspector, how can I help you?” And bam! he sees the whole package and jumps out of his suit, suddenly reminded what kind of nuthouse he's investigating.”

 

The package in question has nothing to do with anything indecent, although this could be debated (but he's the one who's wearing a transparent shirt), and more with the fact that, when you face her, Diane appears to be cut in two. On her left profile, her hair is still as black as it was yesterday, lipstick blood red, and that impossible yellow eye shadow she favors now. But her right profile has vibrant violet hair, green lips, and one lid that shows a palette of blues and oranges that seem to come all the way from a peacock's tail. If from the door she appears to be wearing a skirt, her other leg is half-clad in a half-trouser, apparently cut (and glued?) to this purpose. Under her fur coat, the only item spared from this inner splitting, she wears half a white shirt and half a dayglo crop top, sewed together by some sort of miracle. On her left foot is a red high heel and on her right a neon platform shoe. She is magnificent, and she probably can't walk anymore.

“You look like a Picasso,” he comments.

And at that point, mysteriously, things go slightly off-track.

After an odd beat, she answers in a blank voice: “I think he hated the women he painted.”

He's missing something here, he knows. But after years of knowing someone, you come to accept that every word they say isn't always meant for you – or else he's being oblivious, that is something he does, so just to be safe he whispers:

“ _And how does that make you feel?_ ”

She turns her head, and he's suddenly seeing two Dianes, two very different Dianes, and the look they give him is one he wants to forget. But then she collects herself at a spectacular pace, and tells him:

“Do you want to know something unoriginal? This decade has so far been a political hell, I want it to die in a fire with all the Washington inspectors, but the fashion, damn. I love it so fucking much. Suddenly it's like I'm no longer the worst and you don't get to laugh at my outfits anymore because, compared to most, it feels like I have taste. I mean I miss the late 70s like crazy, but I'd never thought we'd be able to say one day to a tie-dye's face: “well I've topped that”. It's unbelievable. I'm ecstatic,” she says, looking completely unfazed.

“Ain't you always,” he remarks quietly, probably with too much confidence, which seems to annoy her.

“Fuck you Phillip, it's always the same with you, someone does as much as mention an emotion and you're running for the door.”

“My most humble excuses, but I specifically asked for it not a minute ago. _We'll never make any progress if you insist on being petulant, you know._ ”

A sharp retort was to be expected, but she sets back down in her chair, pouting.

“No, I guess you're right. It's not the emotions, not so much. Just a general tendency to always be on the run for the door.”

And then she looks up at him in this very Diane way, subtly narrowing her eyes like a cat, as if she can see through him. It's uncanny, but she has moments from time to time, in fact they all have, this awful team of half-decent people, and it's hard to tell if it comes from listening to so many tapes or if she was recruited on this basis, but she's always been quite observant. Worse, he has to wonder indistinctly if she's been speaking to Gordon lately.

“But we're not here for this,” she declares with a seriousness that unsettles him.

“At least that's what Cooper says. Anyway, tell me about your inspection.”

 

Eager for a change of subject, he begins to pace around the office, lightly touching on every small object that catches his attention.

“He was already in pretty bad shape when he arrived. Which is something that should be on the record too. I can't be expected to put the pieces back together after you and Albert every year. Then he got pretty nervous that I kept looking at him in silence after each question, and he… he developed a sort of obsession with my eyes.”

“He's only human, Phil.”

“No, really, he asked me if one of them was bad or somethin', that seemed to worry him very much.”

She looks up at him guiltily.

“You know I think that part may actually be my fault. I told him there was nothing wrong with my clothes, and you could see the guy was beginning to think his brain was playing tricks on him. Cooper says he never saw someone so pleased to meet him, and you know, it's Cooper. _Y_ _our eyes aren't to blame._ ”

“ _I gather you were quite loud_.”

It's hard to be mad at her, when he can picture the scene so well. Diane, pretended to feel very insulted at the suggestion that what she's wearing may not be totally consensual.

“Sometimes I need to express myself. But the silence treatment, really? I expected something more rock'n roll from you.”

“Honestly, I was just thinking about how to answer properly. Sorry to disappoint but I'm not at liberties to be as...frontal as you in those matters. I have a file on me, somewhere. Let's say circumstances weren't always in my favor.”

“ _Office gossips, what can you do_. As if Gordon would ever fire you.”

For some reason this seems to make him tense.

“Nothing as inelegant as that, I'm sure.”

Even he is able to hear the solitude in his voice, always an unpleasant experience. For there is little chance she can understand what he really means by this, just like everyone else in the team except perhaps for Windom, but he has his reasons for not wanting to have that particular conversation with him. Seniority is probably to blame, or more profoundly, what he heard Earle referred to once or twice, derisively, as contamination. “You are getting bluer, my friend.” But seniority also come with better self-knowledge, and Phillip knows by now that things touch him in a place that is maybe centimeters away from where others seem to receive them. It's the constant gap left in him between those two points that vibrates endlessly and propels him forward, forward, forward. Which is why he cannot talk to Windom, why they never understood each other. Windom Earle is too intelligent a man for this kind of perception, and he's certainly too _intelligent_ a man for what the job demands of them. In fact, for all his science and the grids his mind is made of, he's beginning to lose it, and he knows Gordon knows and is getting more and more scared. That would be the other reason for it, the solitude. Pitiful as it is, his misplaced sense of “loyalty” prevents him from sharing his fears that Gordon may well end up sacrificing him, should the need ever arise. Occasionally, he forces himself to reflect on this apparent willingness to be disposed of.

“He wouldn't know what to do without you anyway.” Another bubble pops matter-of-factly behind him. Diane has shared too many cigarettes' butts on the roof with her director to continue to worry about him; it's a rather private affair.

“That's about right.”

And it really is. He's the one who understands their job, sort of, always was, and that's precisely what makes him so…unreliable, when Gordon mostly followed along and compensated by paying more attention.

But the dual lady with the gum isn't done with him.

“So let me sum it up. You tried to answer the inspector's questions, but you couldn't come up with anything satisfactory. Instead you stared at him with the baby greens-and-blues and that impossible face of yours. You walked around, probably. Did you do the humming thing?”

“It helps me thinks,” he says defensively.

“Oh, Phillip.”

“What?”

“You're fucked.”

The lapels of his suit are suddenly quite fascinating to look at. Maybe he should have spent more time actually preparing for the interview.

“To my knowledge this information is still classified.”

“Not to me, it isn't, buddy.”

Diane seems a bit too happy about all this, in his opinion. Troublemakers. Always enjoying a little chaos here and there.

“You must have scared the shit out of the idiot. We are doing great this year, hurray for us.”

“The boss will be pleased.”

Too much bitterness this time, he slipped and now she's looking at him with a questioning look. Ideally he wouldn't want to monitor himself with her of all people in the office, but something tells him the gap is stronger here.

“I suspect Gordon likes to hear derogatory things about me,” he offers with a half-hearted smirk. “It reassures him, being able to pat me on the back and tell me those officials are all morons anyway. Comforts him in the thought that, secretly, he's the one who's worthy of it, the distinction. The director, you know. He pretends a lot but he always loved titles so much.”

It's curious really, because when he began this sentence he really thought he was going to lie, and yet it seems that he ended up telling the truth, or at least a part of it, by sheer distraction. Maybe another word is needed here, but he won't think about it too much because that's not how they tacitly agree to interact. Problem is, apparently once his mouth has been set free, it's harder to stop.

“Do you know what I'd like, just once? I'd like to see his file. His evaluation. For us it's all good fun and giddy disasters, but for him...he will never let us know.”

At that she stays silent. To “see Gordon's file” is a great office myth, and also a dirty joke, but to Jeffries it has become more of a Moby Dick kind of story, she's well aware. That file, that impossible file is probably written with invisible ink in code so thick it has become unreadable for anyone but Gordon, and probably for him too, on paper so thin it falls apart when you touch it. That file probably doesn't exist. Who knows where this ability of his to rewrite almost any official document comes from. Still, the idea of a Gordon file, a file that will explain, at least open some doors in the background, is so compelling that it makes Jeffries almost religious.

In here they are all, in their own way, looking for answers.

 

“ _Do you know what his face is like?_ ” he asks softly, without looking at her. “When he's hiding something from you, and you know, you know you'll never, ever learn what it is.”

They have shared too many cigarettes' butts on the roof. She knows.

There is this unspoken rule, between them: they never really touch, or barely, only point at each other's bodies and wave at this or that part that has shown worthy of praise, because touching would be too intimate, too close to being actual friends, God forbids the proximity. As long as everything stays virtual, it can still be comfortable, distant, fun. They are beginning, these last years, to realize what the Bureau really is. To touch would be risking to get tragic.

Heaven knows they both have enough of that as it is.

 

She raises her hand and rests it on his wrist, simply.

 

“Yes,” she says.

They stay like this for a while, her thumb absentmindedly brushing the skin of his forearm under his purple sleeve.

 

“It's not like anyone's telling me anything, you see,” she finally remarks, voice a bit cracked.

“I'm just the secretary. And I know most of you act in good faith, but I'm not in the field, I'll never will be, and it's simply not the same, though I am part of the club alright. Well, think about Gordon again. Or Earle. I've said it before and _I'll say it again:_ this is a fucking man's world.”

Her fingers tremble lightly on his arm.

“And contrary to what Mister Watchdog McFBI seems to think, I'm not sitting all day round filling crosswords puzzles, waiting for my nails to dry. I, you know, spy on you. Well at least I'm here, paying attention. And it's not a pretty sight – no offense meant,” she corrects, a sure sign that she's trying to collect herself, “that cut is a killer, your surreal glow is still glowing, I have no objection to that guy Desmond either, and Coop...well anyway,” she chuckles sadly, “my conclusion is that you're all addicts. You even more so than the rest, Phillip. Whatever Aquarius aluminum hat mumbo jumbo it is you're chasing, it has you all pretty hooked on. Sometimes… you see, with the reports and all, it's always for me, I worry. This cannot be good. I'm one to ask for apparently extravagant things, like having a life of my own, three hot meals a day, a small box of geraniums to cherish, shows, the occasional escort with benefits. Those inspectors they send us, they can throw their porn-induced fantasies of the perfect secretary at me all they want, but in the end they're really here for you.”

A swing of her foot, and the red high heel lands on Cooper's desk, making a mess of what is probably a perfectly organized pile of administrative forms. A second later, he actually has to duck a bit to avoid the platform shoe, that flies only centimeters above the coffee pot and crashes against the wall with a loud thump. He has to wonder if she was aiming at the meditation cushion he can see in the corner of his eye.

“It's not just a question of dressing up to freak them out,” she continues bitterly, taking off her coat and letting it fall to the floor.

“It's not that kind of weird.”

The hand that irritably goes through her hair reveals a large streak of orange under the purple, pulls on it, too hard, then begins to fidget, too violently, messing up the neat bob, making its colors clash.

“They worry, too.”

It looks like she really wants to tear off the half-pant off her leg now.

“But they worry for themselves, and I, poor fool, also worry for you. There was this part of Cooper's speech that made me sick earlier, physically so, and he went on and on, “in the Bureau you're in for life, and it's a privilege”. So. Tell me Phillip. Are we here for life?”

As he watches her roll her shirt's sleeve up with something akin to rage, he realizes he is hesitant. The subject is a slippery one, especially for him, and he would rather not be having this conversation, he would rather be...elsewhere. Cooper grates on his nerves sometimes, even if they're rarely in contact; Gordon doesn't make that good a job of hiding the fact he tries to keep them apart as often as he can, and what is he supposed to think of that. In some respect, he reminds him of a young Cole: top of the class and so painfully enthusiastic, folksy, well kept and polished like a vintage car. If only he could shut his pretty mouth from time to time.

“I don't know,” he says eventually, taking his time and trying to slow her down. “But, compared to most, it seems to me… Blue Rose, it's never a free pass. _When you get in you lose something_.”

Diane's only stocking is in the process of being stripped off her calf, but she looks up straight at him.

“ _But when you get out, too_.”

Maybe it's the clothes, the costume she composed for herself today, maybe it's just the stress of the inspection that none of them really succeed in conjuring totally, for fear someone would eventually confirm what they didn't want to state out loud. He feels himself beginning to slip out of the moment.

“Have you considered leaving?”

“Of course I have, I'm not an idiot. For now, though… People always have this hypocritical prevention against selfishness for no reason at all. I'll be selfish any day of the year, it's important and no one is gonna take care of you as well as yourself, it's only sane. But here it's hard: I wanted to, and yet, for once when all is said and done it's not only me on the line. I can't help but think if I'd leave, it would trigger one or the other catastrophe, and Christ, I would feel responsible even if it makes no fucking sense. It's like in a movie, I want to know what'll happen to the whole lot of you.”

There are moments, like now, when the vibration in him threatens to drown out the voices of others, his colleagues, his, never mind, friends. Abruptly, without any filter, he hears what she is saying, and yet the words cannot reach him in the way they should, for underneath other words are pulsating, pressing him to realize he, in fact, doesn't care so much about what will happen to him. It's an unusual thought, if not a surprising one. He may not be so honest with himself, most of the time; Diane always brought out his sharpest angles, even though the more agitated she seems to get, as if she wished to break out of her own skin, the more deeply he retreats inside his mind, raising his eyes to the ceiling and letting everything else flows out, distant, stinging but out of reach. His gaze raises to the old light bulb, a precarious thing, and sets, fixated, while his mind slowly gets blanker and blanker, and the white noise floods his ears; he's a goner, he's evaporating, he's liquid, fluid, going, going and gone. Do not blink. Do not blink. The smell of burned plastic insinuated in his thoughts. If he closes his eyes now, he knows precise visions will be waiting for him.

 

But there's still her breathing.

It's not just him, he's not alone, he cannot. She asked him for...for...something...he cannot quite remember, she doesn't breathe like she normally does and it blocks the other sounds, allowing his eyes to move down again. That long, angry body. It really was a fantastic inspection look.

He's only noticing now that she has been rubbing the left part of her lipstick off with a distracted thumb, leaving a red smudge from her cheek to her jaw. Long trail, like she burned herself. He attempts a half-finished gesture towards her, retreats. Though it's hard to speak, some things need to be articulated.

“When somethin' happened to you, it happens, and no one can record that. Nor prevent it. It's never been in your power, or mine, nor any boss' or inspector's, and maybe that's for the best. You really don't have to do that.”

As she frantically scratches the polish on her left index, he tries, desperately, to regain his senses.

“Oh hell, Phillip, it's me, it's always gonna be me, and you know how I am, so _let me be. Let me insist_.”

With that, unexpectedly, she pours another mug of coffee and pushes it in front of him, very deliberately. The porcelain makes a reluctant drawling sound as it glides on the wood.

And though the temptation is so great to give up and follow the flow of energy that is still pouring out from his mind, the fact is she's here, hand on the handle, expecting; for some reason that is enough to ground him, for now, at least for now, which is all they can really hope for. Eye to eye, face to face. His body is slowly adjusting back around him like a worn out glove. The lipstick wound on her cheek stares at him with a sense of accusation, compelling him to say something, anything, to actually be there.

“You've made an awful mess of your face,” he tries, and takes the cup. Instead of answering, she watches and waits, patiently, for him to take a sip, to actually taste the drink she's made him, thoughtfully. Coffee is good. Coffee is excellent, spectacular even, and the bitter aftertaste that lingers on his tongue would summon, if he were anybody else and not so far on the edge, some fragile emotions.

“You've made an awful mess of the morgue's archives, and you don't hear me complain.”

A very legitimate point, although there was no way for him to know that the apparently deceased family of four he was investigating would wake up and vanish three days after their unsolved accident. The allusion to the administrative hell he unleashed with that case is enough to finish bringing him back to a more mundane plane of existence.

“I was considering the addition of a new category to the death certificate. Murdered anyone lately? I'd rather anticipate,” she remarks casually, sounding more like herself.

And it had been a real challenge to explain it to Albert, too, who's now convinced someone in the office is stealing corpses from him, “and probably those little punks from Tech who hold science fiction crap upside down all day long to pretend they can read.”

“Well I'm not exactly sure.”

Another touchy subject, since most of his allotted ammo is unaccounted for. Stray bullets. Of course she's doing a valuable job here.

“Ah.”

It's the worn-out tone of someone who has known for years of half-living half-dead Schrodinger cadavers in the closet, and even had the luxury to get bored of it. He's glad they're back on professional ground, even if it's suddenly a rather macabre one.

 

“Be careful not to be too efficient though, they might get ideas and try to promote you someday.”

Lost among various concerns about his mental health and general stability, he hopes there's a line somewhere in his recent evaluation that states he also is an idiot. Moments of deadness like the one he just experienced tend to alienate him from the way other humans work, and he's never been too good with that in the first place.

“What? Promote me?” she coughs with indignation. “Like hell they will. Not a chance. What does that even mean? Promote me. You're talking nonsense as always. They,” her reddened finger hover in his direction threateningly, “will never dare.”

For all her office frustrations, the nature of which is quite varied, there are few things that terrify Diane Evans more than the thought she might be assigned somewhere else. She once told him, very late in the night, that after the few first weeks of working with Cooper she had tried to fill a complain, because “he was so nice and polite it made me want to slice my wrists with a paperclip. I was convinced he was either mad or pulling my leg. Nothing too ugly, just enough that they paired me with another guy. Side note: didn't know the caliber of most of the other agents then, would never do that mistake again.” Apparently she was unable to come up with anything plausible enough. Cooper tried to befriend every inspector they ever got, and they all had trouble writing a bad report about him. Top of the class. Insufferable. The frustrations are, once again, varied. He believes he can understand that better than anyone.

“Cooper says...”

Undue privileges, too.

“And what do you say, Evans?”

“Sorry,” she mutters, almost ashamed. “It's the tapes. Sometimes I forget I...it's hard to explain.”

He will try one more time. It's the way she passed him his coffee. Or maybe it's just her, the fashion tips and the welcome negativity, not wanting to admit they are friends because they're unwilling to lose anything.

“Do you need to talk about it? _You don't have to say yes._ ”

And now she just stares at him like he's someone else, and she maybe wants to slap him. But instead she simply stretches her legs, resting her bare feet on Cooper's empty chair.

“Well, you know him. He talks at me, but he never really talks _to_ me. That should be on the record too, I might touch a word to Gordon: I'm like a plant, I like being talked to.”

Then she closes her eyes, which usually means she won't say more on a subject. Still, it's better than the last time he tried.

 

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” he offers after a moment of companionable silence.

“God Phil, you know there are few things I would hate more.”

“You can do it with your eyes closed. In fact it's better that way. It's just that since you brought up that unfortunate business with the morgue, I can't help but think maybe I shouldn't expect Rosenfield to buy me drinks tonight, even if he ended up punching the Washington guy in the face. But on the other hand, I would hate for him to become too confident on the topic of alcohol rounds. So, I happen to have this shiny new nickel in my pocket.”

Head leaned back, eyes still close, he can see she's beginning to smile knowingly.

“You're our winner this year, so the choice is yours. We can buy him drinks in penitence, or let him take comfort in the knowledge that he's still the worst.”

“We?”

“Last late night HR crisis. I'm sure you remember.”

“Oh. Right.

Yes, she probably also has a debt or two to repay. Worth it though, for the unforgettable memory of Albert in his pj's.

He bends to explain in her ear, secretively:

“Heads and tails can be anything you want, your responsibility, I don' want to know. Both sides can be losers. Or winners. Whatever those mean.”

“Okay,” she nods, curious. “Where is the magic?”

“You decide.”

 

Then she hears the coin fly up, but isn't sure if she hears it fall back down. There is only Phillip's lulling voice in her ear, saying:

“Done. I have it on one side. Now _flip it_.”

“Flip it?”

Obviously he doesn't expect her to move, so that can only mean one thing.

“Yes. _I_ _n_ _your mind's eye, what do you see?_ ”

Usually she would call him on the metaphysical bullshit, but this is a special occasion. And maybe they need the surreal excuse to actually be nice from time to time.

“Heads,” she smiles. “We buy him drinks till he begins to talk about world peace.”

“Heads it is, then. Are you getting softer with age, Evans, or is it the dye finally starting to corrupt your brain?”

 

When she opens her eye, there is no coin to be seen, only a silk handkerchief, smooth and white, hanging in front of her face. She takes it hesitantly.

“Are you sure? It will ruin it.”

“It won't.”

Drinks will be nice, this year, he suspects, though they will be expensive – Albert knows his bourbon too well to be tricked into any substitute. He watches her as she rubs the fabric against her cheek, slowly easing the mark away, unable to make it disappear completely.

 

It's all he can offer of course, and it won't fix anything. All they can offer each other. It's not much. It helps.

**Author's Note:**

> A few personal notes:  
> \- Headcanon: the harassing inspector Diane is talking about is Douglas Milford.  
> \- Now I really want to read that Gordon File too.  
> \- I think I had a Bowie picture while writing this but I can't find which one exactly.  
> \- I know this is way too long.


End file.
